


In The Garden

by Of_Princes_and_Savages



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adopted disabled cats!, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Dreams, F/M, Garden statues, Gardens, Many background characters and a few cameos, Rumbelle Christmas July 2020, Storybrooke AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25129771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Princes_and_Savages/pseuds/Of_Princes_and_Savages
Summary: Belle French is aware that she's stuck in a rut. Why else would she have a recurring, vivid dream about a garden if the universe wasn't trying to tell her she needed a change?
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 24
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy RCIJ to maddermyth, who requested: Déjà vu, experiment, garden!

The sun shone cheerfully behind cottony clouds, outlining them in silver. Patches of azure peeked through the fluffy white, and beneath this gorgeous sky was an equally gorgeous garden. A sizeable swath of neatly trimmed grass that gave the air a clean, green scent that mingled with an abundance of blooming roses.

Of course there were other plants. Along one side of the tall wooden privacy fence circling the garden was a small, well-kept garden of herbs and a few vegetables. Two tall tomato plants covered with green and yellowed fruits, a pedestal holding a strawberry pot bursting with green leaves and ripening berries. There was a trellis growing cucumbers vertically, which was an even more interesting sight than the concrete crocodile creeping underneath a rosemary bush.

But the roses were truly the gardener's passion. They were everywhere.

They flowered in merry pink on the neatly-trimmed hedge running along the other side of the privacy fence. Tiny white roses glowing from the shadows where they had overtaken an arching trellis, from within what appeared to be a cave of overgrown shrubs and evergreens, the entrance to a forgotten sylvan kingdom. Beside a ceramic birdbath was, somehow, a yellow rose tree, supported by a wooden stake and bursting with lemon-colored flowers.

In the center of the garden, though, were dark red, bright orange, and snow-white ones, all clustered together in a riot of colors. They were arranged in a tight circle around the stout grey base of a...gargoyle.

An _enormous_ gargoyle.

Counting the pointed wings stretching high over it's hunched body, it could have been as tall as Belle herself. It was made of weathered cast stone, molded to a block that made certain it wasn't going anywhere. The face was somewhere between canine and feline, with short pointed ears and a short snout open in a fanged grimace. It had wide, peering eyes beneath a heavy, scrunched brow and a chain around it's neck holding a shield, or perhaps a crest, that was as big as a serving platter.

The roses were beautiful, the weather was lovely, but the bizarre choice of statuary was what stuck with Belle when she woke up with her alarm screeching in her ear.

It looked like it should have been on top of a slightly sinister church, or a well-preserved Victorian manor. Not nestled among the roses in someone's garden.

In a way, though, Belle was glad for it. It gave her something to mull over while she checked the weather as she set her kettle on the stove and prepared a bowl of instant oatmeal to see her through to lunch. Her friends in college used to think it was weird, or gross, that she made her oatmeal with water instead of milk, but it was Grocery Day and there wasn't any left in the fridge.

Thursday was Grocery Day, and this week it was also Trash Day.

Tomorrow on Friday night, Belle would come home and order take-out for dinner, alternating between three dishes from a well-worn Chien-Po's menu, and get her laundry together for the next day.

Saturday was her day off, when she did her laundry in the basement of her apartment building. But first thing in the morning, she'd walk to the bakery down the street for something sugary and carb-heavy for her breakfast. She also dished out a little tuna for her cat as a treat.

Sunday she slept in until noon if possible...

Belle was keenly aware that she was in a rut.

It wasn't a _bad_ rut, exactly. She had a number of friends, she loved her job at Old World Publishing, and Odin was far from the worst roommate she'd ever had. Her father seemed to think his only daughter was nearing a life of spinsterly destitution with the risk of becoming a crazy cat lady as well, but as for herself, Belle was content.

In the past year, she had attended a wedding, a baby shower, Anna got engaged, Merida had run the full Pine Tree Marathon in Portland, (without throwing up, which she'd done the year before,) and Ruby finished her degree online, complete with a graduation party hosted in her hometown. It had been a good year. And Belle was happy for all of her friends, enjoyed celebrating all the changes in their lives, but...she'd just sort of attended the same year. Nothing changed for her.

For the last five years, Belle had lived in this apartment. She'd been ordering Friday night takeout since college. The last lifestyle change she'd made was adopting Odin, a grey cat who was overlooked at the shelter because he only had one eye. And really, nothing had changed that much because he was a lazy lump of fur.

In a way, she wondered if perhaps she had dreamed of a beautiful garden with a bizarre bit of statuary simply because she was so bored with her daily routine. She'd read somewhere that gardens were supposed to be symbolic of...of _something_ , but she couldn't recall what.

She could look it up on her lunch break maybe.

* * *

It was very common for an author to stick with the same editor for the length of their career. An editor could serve different purposes, some had assistants who read through the manuscripts so they could work on other aspects of the job. Making sure the author met their deadlines, keeping in touch with the other forces necessary to publish a book, making sure the finished produce was clear to the readers. And getting almost no credit for it.

Belle didn't mind this too much. In college she'd been part of a few group projects where she was seemingly the only one working. It wasn't unlike that, only this time, she was being paid.

Old World Publishing was a good company, Belle enjoyed working there. Admittedly she had read more bad manuscripts than good ones, and had come across a few authors who thought her advice and criticisms weren't valid because she was a tiny brunette with a feminine name. But those were just a hazard of the job.

None had ever been the ass that Isaac Heller was.

Belle was largely an editor of fantasy books. Slightly unusual ones. Things like a vampire clan attending college, Georgian-era steampunk, the criminal fairy underworld. Her friend Merida had theorized that Belle got the "weird ones" because she had the people skills to understand the vision the authors had, and help the ones with actually good stories make them happen.

She could only assume that was why someone higher up the company ladder had decided to match Belle with Isaac Heller after his former editor died.

Alan Prentiss was a kindly, older gentleman who had a vaguely Santa-like appearance, with his bushy white beard and red sweaters. He'd died quite suddenly at home, and was missed by his coworkers dearly. Unfortunately, he hadn't left behind instructions on how to work with his most arrogant and weasel-faced client.

As a crime-fiction writer, Heller wasn't terrible. He'd had a good gimmick where his intrepid detectives all solved crimes based loosely on fairytales. _The Second Glass_ was based on Cinderella, _The Real Boy_ was based on Pinocchio, and so on. The last few entries in the series weren't as favorably reviewed, ever since he'd tried shaking things up by murdering a key character in _The Wicked Game_.

Maybe that was why he was trying something new, a full-on fantasy novel based on the story of Snow White entitled _Snow White: Black Heart_.

Trying was an operative word. In more than one sense.

"I know it's a different take, but that's the intention." Heller had explained blithely. Not all her clients came to her office, mostly she kept in touch by email and phone, but Heller had been with Old World Publishing for six years or so and he lived in the city. It also made it easier to negotiate when you could see his weasel-face and his varying smirks in person. Such as the overly proud one he wore right now.

"The pure princess and her evil stepmother? It's been done to death." He gave a careless wave of his hand. "Boring. Stale. Now, an evil Snow White? That's groundbreaking, entirely original."

"Well...that is a different take." Belle conceded. "But Mr. Heller, I wouldn't call it groundbreaking."

Heller continued on as if she hadn't said anything at all. "Princesses are representative of new beginnings and hope, queens represent the old guard and the corruption therein. It's a classic generational conflict issue, really overdone in my opinion but I've made it my own. Telling the story from the queen's perspective as she watches the princess slowly become a jealous, vengeful creature, you could say I've upcycled the dry old story in to something fresh."

Belle waited until it appeared Heller was finished explaining how smart he was. "But nothing _really_ changes. Snow White is villainous, the queen is a poor victim, but Snow White still wins and the queen still dies."

"That's exactly the point! It's a subtle subversion, the victory of a traditionally good character over a traditionally evil one, but clearly reversed in moral standing. The bad guys win."

And on it went.

Belle would try to explain that having a villainous character win wasn't necessarily a problem, but it was a terribly boring journey to read about since the queen had no allies or purpose beyond being a victim. Heller would then explain why Belle just wasn't looking deep enough in to his character motivations. And wouldn't explain what they were because he believed in show, don't tell.

Rather than re-explain that she, his editor, needed to be told, not shown, how certain things played out, she changed the subject to another issue.

And on it went.

Eventually Belle came to a weak point in the book that might, when reinforced, offer some hope. The seven dwarves, (evil of course,) had joined forces with Snow White because she promised to repeal certain laws the queen put in place that disadvantaged their evil plans. It was briefly touched on that they had a feud with the dark fairies, that there was a manipulative Blue Fairy out there who had helped Snow White kill her father and frame the queen for murder, but it was never fully explained. Perhaps if it were fleshed out a bit more, the story might be more compelling?

"Oh, I can't do that."

Belle felt a throb somewhere deep in her brain. "And why not?"

Heller gave her a purely condescending smile that suggested she was a six-year-old playing grown-up behind an office desk. Or had asked a professor of advanced mathematics what a plus sign looked like. "They have a much larger role to play. If I reveal too much, there won't be much of an impact in the sequels."

And on it went...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make Belle an author herself. But I didn't know how to portray writer's block, if you can believe it, so I ended up looking for book-related jobs that might suit outside of librarian. One of the things I found for a book editor's job description, summarized, is "they do a lot of work for very little credit," which just...suits Belle so well.
> 
> Also, for visual reference, the gargoyle described above can be found here (https://www.medievalcollectibles.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/OL-FS818-60.png) as a resin model. My mother's family deals with, in layman's terms, heavy-ass concrete statues and believe me when I say that as amazing as a this gargoyle looks, it takes a small village to move when SOMEBODY doesn't have a working forklift...
> 
> Enough of occupations, on with the story!


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Isaac Heller demanded his manuscript be given to someone who would _understand the nuances_ of his story, Belle had a tension headache pounding at her temples. She promised to do just that, and made the arrangements with her supervisor. They had been sympathetic enough that Belle suspected Isaac Heller had a reputation for being a complete tool, and Mr. Prentiss could likely be in the running for sainthood with the patience he must've had to deal with him.

The rest of the day was uneventful. But by the time she plugged her phone in to charge, she realized she'd been working on autopilot.

In her daze, she'd left her shoes on the rack in her room, noted Odin dozing on the sofa where she'd left him, had ordered shrimp lo mein from Chien-Po's because it was Friday, and plugged her phone in to charge without a conscious thought. She may have been content with her job, her friends, her cat...but this rut was getting out of hand in an uncomfortable, mindless way.

Instead of sifting through her laundry for tomorrow, Belle shuffled out to her living room, picked up a grumbling Odin and dropped down on the sofa, cat in her lap. He seemed fine with this position once she started scratching him behind the ears just so, and Belle envied that. She for one did not feel fine at all.

The problem was, she really didn't know how long she'd been stuck like this. The past year? Two? Three? Maybe she ought to make time for that book group someone put a flyer for in the breakroom.

Or would that just get swallowed up and become part of her rut, too?

Was she circling the edge of an existential crisis?

Just when Belle felt frustrated enough she might actually cry, her phone rang. A tinny version of _Hungry Like The Wolf_ signaled Ruby Lucas was calling. She tended to call on the weekends, it wasn't as unexpected as Belle might've liked...but she still welcomed the distraction.

For two and a half years, she and Ruby had shared a dorm room at college. Neither of them had much money for exotic school holidays to sunny southern states, but a few times Belle had gone back to Ruby's little hometown with her. Just before their winter break in junior year, though, Ruby's grandmother had a heart attack and she'd had to drop out of school to take care of Mrs. Lucas.

These days, Mrs. Lucas was fit enough to go back to work for a few hours a day. (And try to stop her.) Last year, Ruby had finished her degree online, and her grandmother had a party to celebrate, which was the last time Belle had seen her friend in person. But that didn't mean they'd been out of touch, due to phone calls like this.

Once she answered the phone, Ruby immediately launched in to an exciting account of how she'd finally gotten a date with Archie Hopper after trying to drop unsuccessful hints for the last two years. And this did cheer Belle up a little because at that party last year, she'd been about ready to lock the pair in the nearest closet until they sorted out their issues. Mrs. Lucas probably would have helped.

They only paused when Belle had to set the phone down to pay the delivery guy, but afterwards she sat cross-legged on the couch with her meal, entirely absorbed in conversation.

Ruby filled her in on Storybrooke gossip, her loathing for jeans with fake pockets, how Granny was knitting a baby blanket for her goddaughter's baby who they were referring to as a grand-goddaughter. Eventually Belle mentioned Isaac Heller and his truly impressive arrogance, and Ruby had scoffed the same way she'd scoffed at fake pockets.

 _"I'm so sorry your job means you have to read the Snow White version of_ Wicked _."_

"Oh I wish it were Wicked. But it's more like a fanfic where Snow White is a villain. And not fun, self-indulgent fanfic, I mean the ham-fisted, character-bashing kind from an author that claims content warnings are for snowflakes. And there are evil fairies that are supposed to be important to the fantasy world, but I have to wait for the sequel to have that explained."

_"Sounds like somebody's a little overconfident."_

"Oh my god." Belle groaned, pausing to shoo Odin away from her food. She should have eaten at the table, he was too lazy to jump up there. "You have no idea. He has a series with us already that wasn't bad, but he's been losing readers left and right since he killed off a beloved character because he was a little too beloved. And could not be talked out of it by his former editor who warned it was a cheap tactic."

_"Blech."_

"Very much so. Oh. _And_ I don't understand the nuances of the queen and Snow White's portrayals because I'm too sensitive to feminine representation."

There was a pause. _"What the_ fuck _does that mean?"_

"I don't know, but I told the higher-ups about it and they said they'd take care of it. To be honest, he isn't a bad writer, his ego just makes him a very, very difficult client."

 _"Always the silver linings with you. If the man's a dick, he's a dick, and it's okay to admit it."_ Ruby said in that plain, blunt way she'd inherited from her grandmother. Belle was a little envious of it, she had to dig for her courage more often than not. _"You know what you should do? You should take some of those vacation days I know you don't use on yourself, and you should come up to nice, quiet Storybrooke for a visit. The summer season is picking up, but I might know someone in management that can, say, keep a room set aside for you. Wink-wink."_

Belle almost argued that she did use her vacation days...but then she reviewed Ruby's words and frowned.

It _was_ true that she didn't use her vacation days for herself. Usually she saved most of them for emergencies, or for special occasions. Come to think of it, the last time she used her vacation days at all had been a few months ago to attend Will and Ana's wedding. But the last time she'd taken a vacation for herself...?

Ruby had moved on, talking about how she swore Pongo, her redheaded doctor's Dalmatian, purposely shed light fur on her dark clothes and dark fur on her light clothes. Belle participated in the conversation, but she couldn't help but admit, (to herself,) that Ruby had a point. It had been a while since Belle had done something for herself. _Just_ for herself, something more than going to the bakery on Saturday morning.

Saturday she went to the bakery and did her laundry, Sunday she slept in, Monday the week started over...

Belle could only assume that since all she could think about was her persistent, all-consuming rut after finishing her lengthy phone call, that was all her subconscious mind could think of too. Because although it had been over a week since the first time, once again she dreamed of the garden again.

This time Belle found herself standing under the white rose trellis in the back. There was a little sitting area carved out back here in the shadows, the grass was thin or nonexistent because of the shade but there was a wooden bench. It smelled earthy and piney back here, among the evergreens. Amusingly, there was a flat-topped mushroom statue, painted white and red, close enough to the bench to be used as a table. And a collection of much smaller, but equally colorful mushrooms scattered around in red, blue, and green.

And another concrete crocodile, one lurking just to the side of the trellis, painted a deep greeny-bronze color with beady yellow eyes.

Curiously, Belle walked past the crocodile, under the trellis, back out in to the sunshine of the main garden. And it was the same garden. From this angle she noticed something she hadn't before, as it was the complete opposite view she'd had last time.

She wasn't standing in some disembodied garden, she was standing in someone's backyard. Somehow, the first time she was here, she'd been to distracted by cucumber trellises and gargoyles and roses to notice an entire house. An entire pink house, at that.

Belle padded across the lawn, taking in the sight before her. It was three stories, at least, covered in salmon-pink siding. The trim and porch were painted a dark, piney green, huge windows covered with white curtains. There was a-No, there were _two_ ornate brick chimneys poking out of the roof, one that had so many slopes and peaks Belle couldn't imagine how they put the shingles on.

It looked something like a dollhouse, that old-fashioned architecture that everyone agreed was pleasing but refused to incorporate in a modern building. A patio set of white furniture sat on the back porch, a bench and two chairs, made of enameled cast iron, that furthered the idea that she was approaching a dollhouse and any minute, a giant hand would reach down and bring her inside to play.

Belle looked up. There was nothing but fluffy white clouds drifting in a thick blanket across the sky, shining along the edges from the hidden sun.

_Silver linings..._

Belle walked over the checkered stone landing and up the steps, turning around to survey the garden from the original view she'd had of it. She had looked up what dreams of a garden were supposed to mean. It was, of course, as open to interpretation as the frustratingly vague horoscopes Anna swore by, but Belle had liked one possible meaning very much.

_New beginnings..._

* * *

A week later, Belle parked her car outside of The Lucas Inn, the most popular hotel in Storybrooke. The only hotel in Storybrooke, as a matter of fact, but stillL She'd made it.

The GPS had tried to lead her off the road and in to the woods once, and did manage to take her to a dead end before she got on the right road. Belle really should have invested in a better system by now, she always had a navigational mishap when she tried to visit Storybrooke without following Ruby's strict instructions. It was almost like that pesky town limit sign didn't want to be found.

These issues were even more inconvenient than normal due to the fact that it was raining buckets.

Rippling sheets of _wet_ curtained the windows as Belle wiggled in to her raincoat and drew up the hood. She was thankful at that moment that she'd left Odin in Anna's care for the week, (when she left, Anna was unsuccessfully trying to get her fiancé's dog Sven to make friends with their houseguest,) because it truly was weather not fit for man nor beast. Or in this case, woman nor cat.

Belle darted out the car, shivering from the damp, unexpected chill, and around to the trunk. She didn't have many bags, just the one big blue duffel bag that was not as big as she was. Maybe only half as big. She was thankful, again, that she'd packed light because it made running for the shelter of the inn, up a path of rain-slicked stepping stones.

Inside, Ruby's grey-haired grandmother sat behind the reception desk, working diligently on a baby blanket in a neutral, yet adorable, shade of yellow. "Hello stranger!" Mrs. Lucas greeted with a smile. "You can hang your coat by the door, let it drip down here instead of upstairs."

"Oh, thank you." Belle did just that, shuffling out the way of the door. She certainly wouldn't want to get in the way of someone running for shelter. "Ruby told me if they predicted a thirty percent chance of rain, I'd better be wearing a coat. I'm glad she was right."

"The big news stations never know what the weather's like above Frog Creek," Mrs. Lucas huffed, adding an unnecessarily stern purl stitch. "Nothing short a natural disaster would get them to mention Storybrooke by name. Did you have a safe trip? It's been raining since last night. The old toll bridge must be about flooded."

Belle ran a cautious hand over her hair, tied back in a ponytail. She was sure it was a bit of a mess, between the humidity and the friction of her coat's hood. "Not yet, but the water was rising awfully high."

Putting her knitting somewhere under the counter, Mrs. Lucas slid off her seat behind the desk and grabbed a key off the wall of hooks and mail cubbies.

"Well. If it's not now, it will be, if the rain doesn't stop tonight, that's for sure. I'd hate for it to be like this for your whole vacation, but my Ruby tells me you'll be fine so long as you brought enough books." She made her way from behind the desk over to the stairs, and pointed a stern finger at Belle. "And I hope you brought books you _want_ to read, not books from work."

Belle thought briefly of Isaac Heller's heavy-handed manuscript. But only briefly. She may love her job, but she'd realized with every mile behind her on the road that she was looking forward to a week of things being completely different from her normal. Everyone needed a break from time to time.

No one needed to know she'd decided to take hers when she had a weird recurring dream.


	3. Chapter 3

On her first night in Storybrooke, with rain pattering against the windows lulling her to sleep, Belle dreamed of the garden again. It was only natural that it should be raining out there, too. Fat drops falling from an iron-grey sky, splattering the earth below, so vivid that Belle was soaked to the skin in seconds.

She scurried from the center of the lawn to the protection of the porch, where it was at least dry. The lawn was soft and muddy under her feet. The world felt muffled and blurred by the roaring downpour, the scent of roses washed away by cold, crisp wetness.

Belle shivered under the porch, looking out over the drenched garden. The gargoyle looked particularly grotesque with water streaming off of it.

_But..._

She did admit. It made for an interesting centerpiece. The riot of roses underneath it, popping in wild colors. The milder pink rose bushes growing along the one fence, the other fence's vegetable garden with the clever cucumber trellis. The stone crocodile beneath the rosemary, looking quite smug in this inhospitable weather. The bench and stone mushrooms in the shade, completely obscured by shadows and showers at the moment.

It all pointed to a rather creative gardener. Someone with a playful side. Someone who lived in a pink house.

It could have been one of those historical houses heavily protected by a preservation society of course. One that could only be painted in certain, pre-approved colors. But somewhere between the unique architecture, and the pink siding with green trim, Belle felt sure the owner had a streak of whimsy that spread out to the garden.

Out of curiosity, Belle tried the back door. It was a solid thing, painted black. And firmly locked. She supposed she could try the gate off to the right side of the house, built in to the privacy fence...but not in this weather. Even if it was a dream, a very odd dream, Belle could feel her hair dripping from the short time she was out in it.

She sat down on one of the white chairs, watching the rain fall down. She drifted out of her dream after awhile, vaguely aware that the rain had stopped and that she was lying in bed at the inn. Weak sunlight streamed in through the window, streaked with water but the rain had stopped outside too.

Cautiously, Belle patted her hair.

It was dry. A mess of chestnut brown tangles, but dry as a bone. Her pajamas were dry, too. Her feet were dry, and clean, even though she'd felt the itch of little bits of grass clinging to her, felt the squish of mud between her toes. Logically she knew that was exactly as it should be.

But it was getting to be a little more than just an odd dream, and she couldn't explain why.

* * *

Ruby was working the morning shifts during Belle's stay in town. This meant they had afternoons and a few evenings to catch up, or enjoy the sporadic nightlife Storybrooke had to offer. Not at The Rabbit Hole though. According to Ruby, only one person had been stabbed there this past year and it was drunkenly self-inflicted as part of a bet, but it was still not the most...genteel company in the world.

They planned to go to a recently opened wine bar instead. Ruby would drop by the inn a little early to rest her feet, likely make Belle change her outfit at least once, but that wouldn't be until later this afternoon. Since she had a few hours to kill, Belle decided to take a walk down Main Street and explore the little local shops along the way. Including one in particular she had always meant to visit.

If one were to turn a Storybrooke citizen out in to the wild, (or share a dorm room with them,) one would hear about Mr. Gold. He was spoken of like an urban legend: He was a solitary creature, who only wore black, three-piece suits, had gold teeth, limped along with a gold-handled cane and could only be warded off by monthly offerings of cash. Sometimes he would trade money for valuables, however, if a poor soul couldn't repay him in time, the valuables became his property.

In other words, he was a landlord who also ran the town's pawnshop.

He'd held the door for her once when she'd been leaving Granny's, but she hadn't known that until later, when Ruby pointed him out on the street. Both times he'd been wearing a black suit, as the legends foretold, and walking with the aid of a very elegant cane. All in all, she was a little disappointed.

He was an older gentleman, with gray threading through his brown hair, sharp features, dark eyes. Maybe a head taller than Belle herself, five-foot-eight or so. No horns or fangs or cloven hooves to be seen. No claws or scales or yellow lizard eyes. No swirling black cape or sinister mustache. Mr. Gold was rather ordinary looking to be honest.

Actually, Belle amended as she stepped in to the shop, the man himself standing there behind a glass display counter, he wasn't _unattractive_.

She had noticed this before. It was why she'd given him a bit of a brighter smile than was perhaps necessary for a polite "thank you!" when he held the door for her, and in retrospect she had noticed his eyebrows rise up. She imagined, though, that urban legends didn't receive many pleasantries.

A bell tied to the back of the door jingled merrily as it shut behind her. The shop was entirely silent, and just a little bit dim. The latter was likely to protect the merchandise, like at a museum. Belle's eyes swept from her left, to her right, taking in the vast quantities of _stuff_ filling the shop. Kayaks, creepy dolls, a wall full of clocks. Oh my.

"Good morning." Mr. Gold said simply after a heartbeat. "Can I help you find anything, Miss French?"

Belle paused. For a just a second, she foolishly considered if he was some kind of wizard in a tower, (or a pawnshop,) or trickster in the shadows. Maybe just a little unease showed on her face.

"You are a friend of Miss Lucas." He said, just the corner of his mouth curling up as something between mischief and sheepishness flickered behind his deep brown eyes. "She mentioned your visit quite frequently in the diner. And what's mentioned in the diner tends to spread through town. And perhaps to the trees in the forest beyond."

Belle couldn't help it. She giggled. Because it was true, Belle was familiar enough with Storybrooke and the functions of Granny's Diner to know it was true. "I suppose we'll just do away with formal introductions. Given that your name is on the sign out front, Mr. Gold."

"How are you certain I am he?" He asked it with an enviable poker-face that made Belle want to giggle again from the seriousness of it.

Instead she kept as straight a face as she could, which included a helpless grin. "As you said. I _am_ a friend of Miss Lucas, therefore I have valuable inside information."

Mr. Gold's mouth curled again, and more mischief bled through his expression. "Then I find myself questioning why you're in my shop, knowing you've entered the dragon's lair."

"I find dragon's lairs have fascinating things inside. I love antique shops," Belle looked around, taking a step closer to a beautifully made baby mobile, with tiny silver unicorns hanging all around it. "It's always so interesting what people don't want, you can't help but wonder why they got rid of something." She looked over at the pair of unsettling wooden dolls sitting on another glass counter. "Sometimes. Those are just terrifying."

"Ah. Yes." Mr. Gold stepped out from behind the counter, his cane making a quiet noise against the wood floors as he moved. "Dolls are a tricky item in my profession. Some people are collectors who know what they're looking for, some simply like the look of the piece, some are of course children. I haven't found the right customer for this pair yet...the Addams Family perhaps."

Belle snorted. "Beheading them might help. They're eyes are the creepiest part about them, they look so...alert."

They both stared at the dolls for a moment longer.

"Perhaps I might direct your attention over here," Mr. Gold pointed to the opposite side of the shop. His left hand didn't have a ring on it, the right was curled around his cane and had a moonstone ring on it. "There is an absence of dolls, and haunted oil paintings."

"Haunted oil paintings?"

He pointed to a number of framed pictures hanging as a display on one wall. Very pretty ones, good condition. Not that she knew much about art, just that they looked pretty.

"The one little farmhouse with the red roof. The owner alleged that it was haunted because ever since she'd brought it home, she heard the strangest sounds at night. This, I'm sure, had nothing to do with later that year it was discovered she had a family of racoons beneath the house..."

* * *

"What do you mean you spent an hour in there 'talking'? What could you _possibly_ talk about for an hour with Gold?"

Ruby had a particular tone of voice that she reserved solely for her most protective, I-will-dig-the-grave-just-say-the-word instincts. She likely inherited it from her grandmother, who had raised her. Ruby had used this tone of voice when she heard about the ex-boyfriend Belle's father wanted her to get back together with because he was rich, when she heard about the one author who threatened to sue for discrimination when Belle rejected their manuscript. 

Belle wasn't sure how a lengthy, engaging conversation with a shop owner was cause for suspicion.

"We talked about some of the pieces in his shop. And we talked about different shops we've been to, things we've seen." Currently they were sitting at the table and two chairs in Belle's room, with an empty box of assorted cookies from Drury & Lane Bakery sitting on the table itself. "You know I love secondhand stores."

So far the day had been very different from Belle's usual Friday. Instead of eating takeout for dinner, so far she'd eaten mostly cookies for dinner. Very delicious cookies. Because she was still Belle even if she was taking a week for herself, she had decided to pick up some of those Chocolate Overload cookies to thank Anna for cat-sitting Odin when she went home. And she needed one other thing, too.

"I have to go back to buy a crossbow from him, later."

"I'm sorry, did you say a crossbow?" Ruby raised her eyebrows. "And if so, why did you say it?"

"It's perfect for my friend Merida's birthday. I think it's too small to be a real crossbow, but still, she'd love to have one mounted on her wall. It's a fascinating little shop, Mr. Gold says he does a lot of business online."

"That would be because everyone here in town is afraid he'll bargain for their mortal souls." Ruby replied, picking up a chocolate chip that had escaped them from amidst the crumbs in the box. "You don't think he's creepy? Wait. No. Don't tell me, you don't think he's all that bad."

Belle smiled. "Ruby. Do you remember the time you told me only insufferably stuffy men would choose to wear tweed jackets?"

"I was young and foolish." She sniffed imperiously. "I didn't know tweed looked best with red hair and glasses. Or on my floor."

"Ruby!"

"And on that note, if we're gonna go down this road, we're going to need wine!" She popped the chip in her mouth. "Is that what you're wearing?"


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the weekend passed by pleasantly, though it had rained again for most of Saturday afternoon, keeping Belle in the library she'd been visiting. (Oh no...the horror.) She had planned to buy Merida's crossbow that day but by the time she made it to Mr. Gold's shop, it had been closed.

Ruby had warned that most businesses only offered limited hours on Sunday, or were closed outright. Granny's Diner was only open until two, but Ruby had taken advantage of the clear weather to walk around and point out places they should visit before Belle left, and pop in to the few that were open heedless of the seemingly unwritten small-town rules.

During their walk, Belle had been formally introduced to Ruby's boyfriend, too. Archie Hopper was a tall, bespectacled redhead carrying an umbrella in one hand, and a dog leash in the other. Attached to the leash was a Dalmatian, Pongo, who happily swarmed Ruby and Belle with affectionate licks and curious sniffs.

And Sunday night, Belle had another garden dream.

Perhaps she should have spoken, unofficially, to Archie about them. He was a psychiatrist. Or a psychologist. Belle would have to look up the difference but surely he'd have some opinion as to why she kept dreaming about the same thing, over and over again.

The vegetables were flourishing, the roses were lovely, the gargoyle grimacing, the house still pink, the weather cheerful again. Belle came to awareness standing in the middle of the yard this time, in the center of the neatly cut lawn. Everything looked as it had the first time she dreamed of the garden.

Except sprawled out a short distance away, vibrant against the green grass, was a fat orange tabby cat dozing in the sunshine.

"Hello there," Belle smiled. She was ignored. "Do you live here?"

She was ignored again. The cat licked at its paws indifferently, fluffy tail swishing. Suddenly it stood up, shook its head, and padded towards the back of the garden with Belle following behind, curious.

The cat was the first living creature Belle had seen in the garden. It didn't talk to her or look at her knowingly, so it probably wasn't a messenger. Probably. Maybe she should have done more dream-interpretation research...

Still, it was new. And it moved to the back of the garden, under the trellis, up on the bench, and from there it hopped up to the privacy fence and vanished beyond, as if it had better places to be than Belle's dreams. She woke up afterwards, in her bed at the inn, early sunlight filtering through the window...deeply confused.

Why did she keep dreaming about that garden?

* * *

Back home, Monday would see Belle returning to the office after the weekend. She would eat lunch at a sandwich shop that had cleverly been opened amidst a cluster of office buildings, making it a convenient option for employees of various businesses to grab a bite. She would check the corkboard in the break room to see if new flyers had been posted and which had been taken down.

On her vacation, Belle had used most of her morning to read an e-book she'd been working on for months. It had become so engaging at the end that she'd only meant to read one chapter before going to breakfast, but ended up finishing in time for lunch, satisfied as a reader but absolutely ravenous.

After that, it was the perfect time to pop over to Mr. Gold's again, to buy a crossbow.

Sadly, Mr. Gold had customers in the shop dividing his attention. There was an older couple that were clearly from out of town because they oohed over the merchandise in notable Boston accents, and a doctor there to get a pocket watch out of hock. And he was clearly a doctor as he was still wearing his white coat for the errand, as if he'd just made a detour on rounds.

Belle had waited behind the doctor until his business was concluded. Then she pointed out the crossbow, mounted on the wall, and said, "I'd like to buy that, please."

Mr. Gold raised his eyebrows, not-quite smiling. "As you wish, Miss French, but I must say I'm a bit surprised. I didn't take you for a ranged weapon enthusiast."

"Oh, no it's not for me. It's for my friend, her birthday is coming up and she's going to love it."

That was about all they had time to discuss before the couple wanted to know more about a set of table and chairs. Mr. Gold efficiently rang Belle up, ran her card, and bid her a good day. It was probably her imagination but he looked a little disappointed, the same way Belle felt, that they couldn't have another lengthy chat.

She thought Mr. Gold would have been amused by a discussion about Belle's friend the ranged weapon enthusiast. Merida had actually won awards in archery competitions. She was also Scottish, and unless Belle's ears deceived her, so was Mr. Gold. Though his accent was smoother than Merida's...admittedly there was very little smooth about Merida of course...Belle just wished they could have talked some more. Maybe she'd come back tomorrow.

Today, Belle carried the crossbow back to the inn, as it wasn't the sort of thing you could tote around like a shopping bag. It was a little after two by then, and Ruby said she'd be done around three unless a disaster came up.

Naturally Belle could only presume a disaster had come up when her phone chimed out _Hungry Like The Wolf_. The food service industry was full of little disasters that could pile up when least expected.

 _"Hey Belle! This isn't an emergency."_ Ruby said by way of greeting. _"But Archie asked me to take his dog out. He's with a patient that needs a little extra time, and he didn't get the chance to take Pongo out at lunch time. I've got to take him out on a walk, or he's going to destroy the furniture. It won't be long though."_

The only thing they had planned that afternoon was to visit a few shops Ruby had pointed out yesterday. Including a handmade jewelry store, run by a redhead named Ariel who was best known for creatively recycling goods in to her products, including a series made entirely of repurposed cutlery. Ruby had shown her a hairpin that had once been an oyster fork.

"I'll go with you." Belle said. "We can just go over to the jewelry store after that, aren't they open until six?"

_"You sure? I mean, I don't mind, but why would you volunteer to exercise on vacation? You go on ahead of me."_

"No, no, I don't mind at all. Pongo seems like a sweet dog, he can't be that much trouble, can he?"

* * *

Technically, _Pongo_ wasn't the instigator.

Ruby drove her flashy red car over to Archie's house, to cut down on the journey to and from their mission. First they turned Pongo out in the backyard to avoid any...accidents, in the process of leashing him up. Then they headed out to the street. That had been easy.

The weather was mild, fluffy clouds drifting overhead but not threatening rain. The sunshine was warm, but not unbearably hot. Belle was quite comfortable, keeping pace with Ruby and Pongo easily. And then a cat jumped in front of them on the sidewalk, out of the blue.

What was most disturbing was that it was a fat orange tabby, with a fluffy, impertinently swishy tail. Just like the one from Belle's dream.

And it ran.

And so did Pongo.

The leash flew out of Ruby's hands, she gave a yelp either from the shock or the friction. But for a split second they could only stare at the spotted dog barking down the street after the orange tabby, before leaping in to action.

"Pongo, no! Heel boy! Come back! Pongo!"

And then Belle and Ruby ran, too. They ran down the street, cutting across a yard or two, taking a turn here, a twist there, avoiding a single car that luckily hadn't come close to hitting any one of them before it slammed on brakes. The cat led them on a merry chase until it closed in on a garden gate left ajar in someone's fence.

The cat had smoothly darted through the gap. Pongo burst through next, not even phased. Ruby had pulled ahead of Belle because her legs were longer and she was one of those people who thought jogging was _fun_ , and she flew through the gate still hollering at Pongo to heel. Belle was fervently wishing her dull routine at home had included a mild exercise program.

She stumbled through the gate, winded, and flopped over to rest her hands on her knees without even bothering to check if the backyard was fully fenced in. She heard Pongo barking over the sound of her own wheezing, she heard Ruby arguing with the dog, and she smelled...roses?

Slowly, breathlessly, Belle pushed herself upright with a strong sense of déjà vu.


	5. Chapter 5

She must have hit her head.

That was the only thing Belle could think of. She must have slipped, hit her head on something solid, and been knocked unconscious. In her concussed state, she went to sleep. It was the only logical explanation.

Yes. That was surely what happened. Because there was no other reason for her to be standing just inside the garden she'd had recurring dreams of for more than a week.

It was all there.

She slowly became aware of the enormous, pink Victorian house looming over her. The backyard was penned in by a wooden privacy fence, one side was lined by a hedge of pink rose bushes, the other featured a small garden featuring herbs, a flourishing strawberry pot, ripening tomatoes, and a trellis that had cucumber vines climbing up the grid.

Ruby, at the back of the garden, was dragging Pongo out from under an arch burdened with tiny white roses. He whined and pulled in the opposite direction, perhaps the cat had taken the same escape route it had in her dreams, too, up on the bench and over the garden fence.

There was a bird bath with a yellow rose tree over it. The grass was cut recently, it smelled green and fresh in the air. It mixed with the roses. Roses like the ones planted around the base of a massive, stone gargoyle that almost seemed to smile at Belle's confusion.

Even the crocodile under the rosemary bush looked a little more smug than usual.

"Oh...my..."

Pongo appeared to have lost interest in his quarry at last. He trotted along Ruby, tongue lolling unapologetically as she scolded him for his bad behavior. "You are going to be in so much trouble when I tell Archie about this! I am going to be in so much trouble!"

Belle tore her eyes from the gargoyle and the multicolored roses beneath it. "Ruby..."

"Of all the backyards, you just had to burst in this one!"

"Ruby, who lives here?"

Glaring at Pongo, Ruby grumbled. "Mr. Gold." She directed this towards the dog; "He owns Archie's office you know, you spotted brat. How do you expect to be fed Nilla Wafers if he gets evicted?"

Pongo merely yawned.

Belle looked up at the pink house again. Then at the gargoyle. The shady back part of the property, where she couldn't see them, but she knew another crocodile lurked along with a collection of mushrooms and a garden bench. This was her dream garden. And it was Mr. Gold's house.

Mr. Gold. The charming pawnbroker.

Mr. Gold. Who's car was parked in the driveway, driver's side door opening, as they left his backyard.

"Oh god..." Ruby muttered as the man himself got out of his car, a vintage black Cadillac.

For the first time, Belle understood why the populace of Storybrooke were so unnerved by Mr. Gold. The classic car, all serious dark lines, and his tailored suit, also all serious dark lines. The blank expression on his face, save for questioningly raised eyebrow at their uninvited appearance.

It was easy to believe the man could have them buried in the woods somewhere with a quick phone call to the right people. And unfairly, he still wasn't unattractive for it.

Mr. Gold picked his way carefully across the grass, probably being mindful of the uneven surface and his impeded balance. "Miss Lucas. Miss French," he greeted them with a cool nod. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Chasing a cat." Ruby blurted gracelessly. And immediately looked like she wished there was a convenient hole to crawl in to and die.

"He chased-The gate," Belle motioned behind them, attempting a more graceful explanation than...that. "It was open. Pongo got away, chasing a cat. It slipped inside the gate and Pongo went after it. He didn't tear anything up, we were only there for a minute or two."

Mr. Gold hummed thoughtfully "This wouldn't happen to be an orange cat, would it?"

"Very orange." Ruby nodded stiffly. "It jumped over the back fence."

For some reason, Mr. Gold relaxed his frosty exterior. He folded both hands atop his cane's handle. "I see. There has been one lurking around the last week or two. I can't say why, unless I've mice hiding in the roses."

"They're very beautiful." Belle heard herself blurt out. "Especially the ones underneath the gargoyle."

This had him relax a little more. In fact, he smiled at a bit at her admission. As if it hadn't tumbled clumsily from her lips, but was a warmly received compliment. She...imagined he didn't receive many. Not with how Ruby was looking between them like Belle had just praised the decorations around the mouth of Hell.

"Thank you, Miss French. I am rather proud of my centerpiece."

"It's striking." Belle agreed, feeling a little knot in her belly loosen. And another one tighten because it wasn't a big smile, but the crinkles at the corners of his brown eyes were more than _not unattractive_. Ruby was still gawking with thinly-veiled shock. "I don't think I've seen a gargoyle that wasn't attached to a building before."

"This one has always been destined for the garden, I believe. I bought him at an estate sale and found him rather too charming to part with." Mr. Gold's crooked smile appeared, the same one he'd worn when they had been chatting in his shop the other day. "It took four men to get him up on his pedestal, that was before the roses of course."

"Only four?" Belle mentally estimated the size and weight of the statue. "That thing is as big as I am, it must be twice as heavy. More even."

"It was quite the endeavor. They had to take the fence down and back a truck up-"

"Oh. Wow." Ruby looked down at Pongo, who had flopped down on the grass quite comfortably. "Would you look at that? He's all worn out from chasing that darned cat, I really ought to take him back home. Belle?"

It wasn't the most abrupt exit Ruby had ever made. But still, a part of Belle desperately wanted to stay and discuss the garden that didn't just exist in her dreams. It was a real place. Here. Created by this man. Here.

And so she did something that Ruby no doubt scold her over on the walk back to Archie's house, and even more in her car from there. But Belle did it anyway: "Could you give me a tour sometime, Mr. Gold?"

* * *

Scolding aside, (and there had been quite a bit,) Belle was not deterred by local opinion.

Tuesday was her last full day in Storybrooke. She arrived at Mr. Gold's house at four-thirty, as he'd suggested, and received a tour of his garden that had started out slowly as he warmed up to it. She got the feeling he wasn't used to visitors.

"Not entirely true," he'd said at one point. "Once a year, reliably, a delinquent or two climb the fence to see if they can find where the bodies are buried."

Mr. Gold had a slightly warped sense of humor. Belle found it to be oddly endearing, and it made the tour a bit more entertaining.

Most of the statuary and decorations had come various estate sales. He kept the larger, painted crocodile in the back because it overwhelmed the rosemary bush with its size, and so the sun wouldn't fade the paint out.

His grandson Henry, (no one had mentioned a family that visited because urban legends did not have families, including precocious grandsons,) who was a worldly six, had named the smaller crocodile Rosie because it lived beneath the rosemary.

The mushrooms were in the back of the garden because it was too shady for much to grow back there and they added a pleasing touch of color. 

This was the inaugural year for the cucumber trellis, a discovery he'd made online. He found it was much neater than having a cucumber sprawling across the ground like a deflated jellyfish.

Mr. Gold's favorite flowers were roses because he rather like the idea of how people would bend over backwards for a plant famous for being thorny, all in pursuit of the lovely flowers that only bloomed for a short time in the summer. Belle supposed she'd never paid much attention to flowerless rose bushes until then, but she agreed they were rather striking shrubs.

She did not kiss him, that time. She gave him her phone number and when he didn't use it promptly, she sent him a picture of a potted fern she'd bought when she came home. It wasn't a garden, exactly, but she liked the way it looked in her living room.

 **A very handsome fern.** He'd replied almost at once. **You must be proud.**

* * *

There were some parts of her routine that Belle fell back in to. Takeout on Fridays. Grocery shopping on Thursday. Tuna for Odin on Saturday.

But she didn't go to the bakery every Saturday, some mornings she tried her hand at making pancakes for herself or eating ice cream for breakfast because she was a grown adult and could do things like that. She still had a career to schedule around but she had started to become more aware of her life as well, one that wasn't set by a routine that only altered due to obstacles or her friends inviting her to special events.

Odin nuzzled Belle's leg when she came to pick him up. Anna enjoyed her cookies. Merida loved her crossbow. Isaac Heller took his business to another publisher with a "more open view", whatever that meant for his career.

Gold sent Belle messages, and vice versa. A few times they talked on the phone. Belle had sent him pictures of Odin and her fern, too, but Mr. Gold had explained his phone was an older model and he'd never figured out how to use the camera. This was remedied by his son eventually, who had set him up with a modern smartphone and coaxed his father in to sending a selfie.

Belle knew this because Gold had complained about it as "meddling". Without much heat. 

In early November, Belle came back to Storybrooke for a quick weekend visit. She of course checked in with Ruby, who was still with Archie Hopper, who's dog was a perfect angel when Belle came across him. Ruby begged her to come and visit during New Year's and Belle agreed, making her reservations early although the tourism in Storybrooke was pretty much dead in December.

And she checked in with Gold, too.

He invited her back to his garden. Or maybe she'd asked if she could visit. That part was a little fuzzy to her, she just remembered they went there together and took a walk around the backyard. The grass had turned brown and the vegetable garden had been removed. The roses were prepared for the upcoming winter.

The gargoyle, hunched on his pedestal, looked even more striking than he had in the summer. With the leaves all turning vibrant colors and the trees becoming bare, skeletal shapes everywhere you looked, he looked suitably eerie for autumn.

It was in front of this statue that Belle stole a kiss from Rum Gold, with the only eyes on them being made of stone.

* * *

Eventually, Belle did confess to having strangely detailed dreams about the garden before ever seeing it. They were never able to be sure if they were prophetic, mere flights of fancy, or a strange experiment performed by a higher power. Mr. Gold didn't particularly care because somehow it had led them together, and Belle couldn't say she spent a lot of time questioning the nature of fate either. Not when it worked so well.

But it was worth noting that Pongo the Dalmatian had never chased another cat.

And the only cat spotted around the pink house afterwards was a one-eyed cat, fluffy and grey, who liked to lounge in sunny windows and demand tuna on Saturday mornings.


End file.
